


Immortalized on our Skin

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:06:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting anti-possession tattoos is about protection. At least Sam thought so. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 27/9/2012]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortalized on our Skin

Sam watches Dean trace the outline of a black sketch on the yellowed paper of a thick, leather bound book, as if trying to memorize it. He looks thoughtful for a moment, then makes a dismissive noise and keeps flipping through the book, before grabbing the next one. There's a whole stack of books, and Dean has already worked his way through a good two-thirds of them.

Sam's the one who came up with the idea of an anti-possession tattoo, but Dean's decided he's in charge of choosing the design. 

"You'd add flowers and rainbows and stuff," he'd said with a huff. "I want something simple. Masculine."

Sam isn't bothered by letting Dean make the decision. Dean takes hunting seriously, and Sam knows he'll find the perfect tattoo for them.

He watches Dean go through a few more books. Finally, he cocks his head to the side, lower lip caught between his teeth, and nods.

"Got one?" Sam asks.

Dean looks up, startled, as if he's forgotten that Sam is in the room with him, and then wordlessly holds up the book.

Sam walks over to the table and peers at the design. "Looks good," he says.

Dean smiles, wide and proud, like he just solved all the problems in the world. "It's awesome," he brags. He snatches up a piece of paper and copies the anti-possession charm with sure, precise strokes of a pencil.

It's a pentagram, surrounded by what looks like a flaming sun. Sam had expected something simpler, just a small pentagram somewhere on their body, but the design is beautiful, and Sam wonders where Dean will want his tattoo. Probably his arm, he thinks, and the thought doesn't sit right with him. The possessive part of him wants Dean to get the tattoo somewhere a bit more subtle, more hidden, somewhere where not everyone can see it. He knows Dean is getting the tattoo for protection, but they're getting matching tattoos, and that makes it personal for Sam, makes it something other than just a simple practicality.

Dean is finally happy with the copy of the design, holding the paper out. 

"Done," he says, and grins. "Ready to get inked tomorrow, Sammy?"

Sam rubs at his jaw, banishing the thoughts from his mind, and nods. "Sure. I found a place online that looks good," he says. 

Dean studies him, mirth in his expression. "Are you nervous?" he asks. 

"No," Sam lies.

"You are! You're nervous about getting a tattoo. Aw, Sam, that's adorable," Dean mocks.

Sam rolls his eyes, and mutters 'shut up' under his breath, but doesn't protest. He'd rather Dean thinks Sam is scared of getting a tattoo than knowing Sam is more worried about where Dean is going to have their matching tattoo inked into his skin for all eternity.

"Don't worry," Dean continues. "I'll hold your hand."

Sam snorts. "Right. I think the last time you held my hand I was a kid and you were scared of me crossing the street on my own."

"Cause you'd run off whenever you saw something shiny without looking left and right, idiot."

"Did not," Sam protests.

Dean huffs. "Did too," he replies. "You were all 'oh look, Dean, a baby rabbit', 'oh look, Dean, toys', 'oh look, Dean, a sparkly pink dress. Please let me have it'."

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh look, Dean, a couch. Guess who's sleeping on it tonight and not sharing the nice, king-sized bed with me?" he says sweetly.

"As if," Dean replies. He brushes past Sam and slaps him on the ass hard enough to sting, the noise echoing sharply in the room.

"Ow, fuck, Dean," Sam yelps.

Dean snickers. "Princess," he says.

+

Sam glares when Dean comes near the bed that night, shaking his head warningly.

Dean just laughs and crawls onto the bed.

"Get off," Sam says petulantly, kicking at Dean.

"I'd love to," Dean replies with a smirk. Sam tries to push him off the bed, kicking at him some more, and Dean starts fighting back immediately. It turns into a full-on wrestling match, both trying to pin the other down and gain the upper-hand. Twice they almost fall off the bed, and Sam hits his head on the headboard hard enough he sees stars.

In the end, Dean has Sam's wrists pinned to the mattress above his head, both of them breathing hard. Sam is taller than Dean, bigger, and he knows he could fight Dean off if it wasn't for the thigh Dean has firmly pressed between Sam's legs, rubbing against Sam's dick. 

"Are you giving up yet, Sammy?" Dean asks teasingly, and adds a bit more pressure.

Sam arches up against him, head a bit dizzy. "You fight dirty," he pants.

"Hmm, but you like dirty," Dean replies, and leans down, biting at Sam's jaw.

Sam makes a keening sound and turns his head, trying to catch Dean's lips with his. Dean chuckles and pulls back an inch teasingly, before finally kissing Sam hard and deep. Sam feels himself relax into the kiss, fight draining from his tense muscles, and Dean makes a pleased sound. His grip on Sam finally loosens and Sam grabs Dean's hips with his free hands, grinding them together.

Lips and hands map out each other's bodies, tracing scars and seeking out the spots they know drive the other crazy. It's a bit rough, a bit desperate, and exactly what Sam craves.

When Dean pushes into him, fingers still smeared with lube holding onto Sam's hip hard enough to leave bruises, Sam throws his head back and groans. He wraps his legs around Dean's waist, heels digging into his ass, and urges him forward, deeper into him. 

Dean makes a grunting noise, presses his lips to Sam's jaw, and fucks him. Their bodies are pressed together so tightly it doesn't allow Dean much room to move, but his thrusts are sharp, fast, and Sam holds onto him and feels his mind swim with pleasure. He comes with his fingers digging little half moons into Dean's shoulder, tearing at skin, and presses his face into the slope of Dean's neck. Sam listens to the harsh gasps and moans falling from Dean's lips and feels him come hot and sticky inside of him.

Afterwards, they lay curled together, Dean's leg wedged between Sam's and his body sprawled half over Sam's chest.

Outside, stray cars pass on the nearby highway, but apart from that it's quiet, and Sam listens to them breathing, trying to match his rhythm to Dean's.

Dean strokes his hand up Sam's stomach, coming to rest on his chest, and taps his finger against a spot right under Sam's collarbone.

"Here," he says softly.

"Here, what?" Sam asks.

Dean lifts his head and kisses the spot he just touched. "The tattoo," he says against Sam's skin, words a bit muffled.

"Oh, so you get to choose where I get the tat?" Sam asks. He rolls them onto their sides so they're facing each other, legs still tangled and his arms securely around Dean.

Dean touches the spot on Sam's chest again. "I'm older."

"I'm smarter," Sam counters.

"I top."

"What?" Sam sniffs. "That's stupid. I top too...sometimes."

Dean snickers, and Sam kicks him in the shin.

"Shut up, asshole," he mutters. "And anyway, that has nothing to do with who gets to decide where my tattoo goes."

"You'd choose some place stupid or cheesy."

"Fine. Then I get to decide where yours goes," Sam replies, narrowing his eyes at Dean even though he doubts Dean can see that in the darkness.

"Right. Mine," Dean says. "Okay, whatever."

He untangles himself from Sam's arms, ignoring the way Sam is trying to tighten his hold, keep him close. He rolls onto his back, a few inches of space between them, and Sam can practically feel him sulking.

"What?" he asks, confused, and Dean remains stoic. "Dean, what?"

"Nothing, I'm tired," Dean mutters, then after a beat of silence he adds, "And I don't care where you get your stupid tattoo."

Sam bites back a groan, because sometimes living with Dean is like living with a pouting, fit-throwing teenager. Dean will deny it till the end of his days, but the guy has some serious mood-swings.

"I agreed to the chest thing, didn't I?" Sam asks.

"Whatever. I don't care."

"Oh my god," Sam mutters, and rolls out of bed. He's disgusting with sweat and come, and if Dean is going to sulk and kill his afterglow, he might as well clean up so he can sleep comfortably.

He's barely inside the bathroom, wetting a towel, when Dean stomps in after him.

"Sometimes you're a real bitch, Sammy," he growls.

Sam rolls his eyes and wipes sticky, drying come of his stomach. "Right, I'm the bitch. You're just a ball of sunshine," he mutters. "Look, either you tell me what crawled up your ass and we can talk about it like adults, or you don't and keep pouting about it – in which case, I'm going back to bed now to get some sleep."

Dean sniffs and stalks back out of the bathroom. Sam finishes cleaning up and joins Dean in bed, settling down and huffing when Dean stubbornly tries to pull all the covers onto his side.

"Stop," Sam snaps. "Jesus, you're fucking ridiculous."

"You're fucking stupid," Dean mutters, and turns onto his side, his back to Sam.

Sam ignores him and closes his eyes, determined to go to sleep and not let Dean bother him any further. He's almost asleep when Dean moves suddenly, making the bed shake.

"I thought we'd get the tattoo in the same place," he says.

Sam's eyes fly back open and he bites back a sigh. "And I was supposed to know this how, Dean?" he asks, forcing himself to sound calm instead of exasperated.

Dean remains silent.

"I can't remind minds," Sam continues. "You could have told me and I would have said, 'okay, let's do that', instead of you getting pissed at me because I don't know what goes on in that head of yours."

"I told you now," Dean replies.

"Okay, fine. Let's get it in the same place. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Dean deadpans.

Sam groans and rolls onto his side. He waits for a moment, willing Dean to turn around to face him, but Dean doesn't move. Sam shifts closer, pressing his face into the crook of Dean's neck.

"You're the most infuriating, stubborn asshole in the world," he mutters. "And just so you know, matching tattoos are kinda cheesy and romantic."

"Whatever. You came up with the idea," Dean replies.

"To get tattoos. I never said anything about matching," Sam argues.

"Shh," Dean shushes. "Quiet. I'm trying to get some sleep here, Sammy."

Sam is tempted to hit Dean over the head with something, or maybe throw his hands up in exasperation and rant about how impossible Dean is to live with, but he's done both things before – plenty of times – and Dean hasn't become one bit less maddening. So Sam settles for pinching Dean, grinning against his neck when Dean yelps, before shifting into a more comfortable position and going to sleep.

+

The guy managing the reception in the small tattoo place Sam picked rolls his eyes when Dean shows him the design and says they both want it tattooed on their chest.

"You want each other's names inked into it too?" he asks sarcastically.

The sarcasm seems to be lost on Dean, who looks both mortified and insulted. "No, I don't want a tattoo of my brother's name," he says, glaring.

A young woman comes bustling out of the backroom then, interrupting the conversation and telling the guy to clean up in the back.

"Sorry about him," she says once he's out of ear-shot. "His social skills are a bit rocky."

"It's okay," Sam quickly says with a smile. 

"So, you both want a tattoo?" she asks, and Dean hands her the piece of paper with the anti-possession design and explains the whole thing once more.

"I love how you acted as if the idea of something going on between us was totally outrageous," Sam says when they're alone in the backroom. The girl, who'd introduced herself as Shelly, had left the small room muttering something about giving them a couple of minutes to get ready.

"I just don't get why people always assume we're fucking right of the bat," Dean mutters, taking off his shirt.

"Because we are," Sam counters. "And do you have to make it sound so crude?"

"Nobody ever looks at us and goes 'oh hey, you two must be brothers'," Dean argues, ignoring Sam's question.

"We don't exactly look alike. Shorty," Sam mocks. "And hey, maybe because we came in here asking for matching tattoos."

"They're symbolic!" Dean exclaims with a huff. 

Sam sighs and decides to drop the topic, sitting down on a small chair next to the tattoo chair Dean is sitting on.

"Nervous?" he asks conversationally.

Dean snorts. "Dude, you stitch me up, like, once a week," he says.

Sam gives him a crooked grin. "Guess so," he says. "Would have kissed you and maybe tried to cop a feel to distract you if you'd said yes, though."

Dean cocks his head to the side. "What do you know, I'm suddenly scared of needles," he says, and grabs Sam's shirt. "Come here."

Sam laughs and leans in, kissing Dean. He lets his hand run over Dean's naked chest, pinching his nipple teasingly. Dean groans against his lips, tongue swiping out and nudging past Sam's lips.

He makes a protesting noise when Sam pulls back.

"We're brothers, remember?" Sam says, pointing his thumb at the door where footsteps are approaching.

"Damn," Dean mutters mournfully. 

The door to the room opens after a quick knock and Shelly comes in with a smile. "Ready?" she asks.

"Born ready," Dean replies, and grins.

+

They're back on the road that afternoon and Dean keeps brushing his fingers over his chest, where the t-shirt is hiding his new tattoo, a pleased expression on his face. His fascination with it – and Sam's tattoo – doesn't wear off after a few days like Sam assumed it would. His eyes rarely leave Sam's chest when Sam isn't wearing a shirt, and he keeps casually resting his hand over Sam's tattoo sometimes, and he likes kissing it when they're lying in bed together. One memorable afternoon, Dean pins Sam down to the bed, kissing and sucking and biting his tattoo while he grinds them together until they both come. 

Sam never thought the small place just under his collarbone would ever become Dean's favorite part of his Sam's body (until a few weeks ago Sam's money would have been on his cock, because no matter how toppy Dean is – or pretends to be, Sam sometimes suspects – he's never met anyone who likes to give him blowjobs with as much genuine enthusiasm as Dean). Sam's really not complaining though. If Dean wants to touch him all the time and gets instantly horny at the sight if Sam shirtless, Sam can live with that.

One morning, a couple of weeks after they get the tattoos, Sam comes out of the shower to find Dean standing naked in front of the sink, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He's tracing the outline of the ink on his chest with the tip of one finger, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Narcissist," Sam says, fondly, and kisses the back of Dean's neck.

Dean cranes his head back, short hair brushing against Sam's shoulder. "I just think it looks cool," he defends himself, and kisses Sam's jaw, teeth nipping at skin.

"Right," Sam starts, but then Dean's lips are on his and Sam gets a little distracted. He nudges Dean around, tilts his face up with one hand on his jaw, and kisses him eagerly. Dean tastes of toothpaste, and he hasn't shaved yet, so his stubble scrapes against Sam's skin in the most perfect way, and Sam can't get enough.

It doesn't take long before he's rock hard, cock pressed against Dean's stomach, his towel pooled around his feet. He grabs Dean by the hips and lifts him up onto the small space next to the sink, and forces Dean's legs apart, pressing in close.

"I'm not a ragdoll, Sam," Dean complains when Sam kisses down his jaw.

"Doesn't feel like you mind being manhandled though," Sam murmurs into his ear, nipping at his earlobe, and grinds against Dean's hard dick.

Dean lets out a moan. His legs fall apart further, hands pawing at Sam's back and shoulders, when Sam grabs his ass and rocks them together even harder. Sam kneads the firm globes of Dean's ass in his hands, the tips of his fingers pressing into the crack of his ass.

"Fuck, Dean," he murmurs, and Dean whimpers in reply.

Sam brings one of his hands up to his face and sucks a finger into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it, getting it wet.

"Gonna make you come like this," he says, and runs the finger down Dean's crack to his ass. He presses in, tight, perfect heat clenching down around his finger, and Dean gasps wetly. He buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck, lips resting against skin in an open-mouthed kiss, and moves against Sam helplessly, like he can't decide whether he wants more friction against his cock or Sam's finger deeper in his ass.

Sam's own cock is hard and leaking, but he focuses on Dean. On the wet trail Dean's dick leaves on Sam's stomach, so hard and big, and on the way Dean eagerly rocks down on his finger. On the way he gasps and moans helplessly, his hands holding on to Sam's back, nails digging into skin almost painfully whenever Sam hits his prostate or moves against his dick in a particularly pleasurable way. He focuses on the way shudders in his arms, the way hangs on and lets Sam be in control.

It makes Sam's heart pound in his chest when Dean is like this. Stoic, stubborn, willfully butch Dean, falling apart in Sam's arms because Sam is fingering him.

Sam kisses Dean's shoulder, murmurs, "Yeah. Yeah, come on," and, "Dean. Come on, Dean."

When he presses a second, dry finger into Dean, Dean lets out a surprised cry and comes against Sam's stomach, spurting hot, sticky come between them. His lips are placed directly over the tattoo beneath Sam's collarbone, kissing in sloppily as he shudders through his orgasm and aftershocks.

Sam leaves his fingers inside Dean, loving the way he feels impossibly tight and hot around him, and thrusts against Dean a little harder, a bit more desperately. Dean clings to him, boneless and spent, and Sam's stomach is hot with pleasure, having Dean in his arms, so pliant and happy, letting Sam manhandle him however he wants. He makes choked off, small noises when Sam's fingers brush against his prostate, his softening cock trapped between their stomachs, and Sam only holds him closer, ruts against him until he comes with Dean's name on his lips.

They stay like this for a couple of minutes, slumped together and the counter the only thing holding them up, before Sam feels like he can move again. He peppers small, sweet kisses against Dean's skin and strokes a hand up his back.

Sam doesn't ask if Dean is okay, even though he wants to, but the way Dean makes small, snuffling noises and feels, for once, completely relaxed and content against Sam tells him everything he needs to know anyway.

"Wanna keep the room for another day and go back to bed?" Sam asks after a moment.

Dean laughs weakly. "Hell yes," he says.

Sam takes a step back, untangling himself from Dean, and the sight in front of him makes him smile. Dean is a mess – a beautiful, debauched mess, and Sam doesn't think he's ever seen anything better in his life. His lips are bitten raw, red and puffy, his hair tousled, and there's come everywhere – on his stomach, his thighs, in his pubic hair – and a smug, satisfied look on his face. Sam's eyes are drawn to the black ink on his chest though.

He leans in, kissing Dean softly, before ducking his head down and pressing his lips against Dean's tattoo for a moment.

Dean is smirking when Sam pulls back. "Like it too, huh?" he asks.

Sam grins. "Never said I didn't," he replies.


End file.
